"
"I--I'm no good at that, Sylvie. A fellow you see all day long--why,
you don't know what he looks like, 'specially if he's your own
brother."
"Well, you certainly know the color of his eyes."
"He has hazel eyes--I think you'd call them--"
"Yes?" she drank in his words eagerly, pressing his hand tighter in
her excitement. "Go on. If only you were a girl, now, you'd do this
so much better."
"I--I--but I don't know what else to say, Sylvie. He is very strong."
"Of course. I know that. Didn't he pick me up out of the snow and
carry me home?" He moved as though he had a feather on his arm. You
are very strong too, Pete--_very_ strong. Are _your_ eyes hazel?"
"No; blue."
"I always liked blue eyes. I like to imagine that Hugh is just the
Viking sort of man I dreamed about when I was a little girl. You think
I'm a silly goose, don't you?"
"Yes, rather."
"Don't keep trying to pull your hand away, dear; you can't guess how
it comforts me. I'm awfully alone here, and strange. I don't suppose
you know how queer and frightening it's been--this getting lost and
being brought here in the dark, and then--living on in the dark, just
trusting my instincts, my intuitions, instead of my eyes.
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